My Friends and Acquaintance
William Hazlitt V
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V.
HAZLITT COMPARED AND CONTRASTED WITH
ROUSSEAU.—HIS PERSONAL BEARING AND ITS CAUSES.—HIS INTERCOURSE WITH
THE WORLD.—HIS PERSONAL APPEARANCE.
Hazlitt is considered by
some of his friends to have had many points of intellectual character and temperament in
common with Rousseau. But I do not know how they
would set about to make out the resemblance, except in one isolated feature—that of the
morbid feeling which possessed Hazlitt as to the sinister effects of
his personal appearance and manner, on ordinary observers. Rousseau
fancied that his friends were always hatching plots and conspiracies against him: in like
manner, Hazlitt fancied that everybody (except
his friends) who looked upon him, perceived something about him that was strange and outré.
There was about as much and as little foundation for the feeling in the one
case as the other: it was in fact the result of a con-![]()
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sciousness in
both that there was something within, which each would have desired to conceal. But there
was this vital difference between the two, that in the case of Rousseau the weaknesses and errors of which he feared the discovery and
promulgation, were such as all men consent to be ashamed of; whereas, in the case of
Hazlitt, his extreme sensitiveness pointed at failings that could
hurt nobody but himself. Moreover, what he chiefly feared from the eyes of the world was,
that they should see in him, not himself, but that effigy of him which the inventions of
his political and personal enemies had set up; he feared that vulgar eyes would discover in
him, not the man he was, but the “pimpled Hazlitt” that his Tory critics
had placarded him on every bare wall that knew no better throughout the empire.
There are few things that exercise a more marked and unequivocal influence
over the lives and characters of men of great susceptibility of temperament, than any personal peculiarity, especially when it is one obvious to all the
world: witness the case of Byron, to whose lameness
might probably be traced ![]()
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every one of the leading events and features
of his strange and melancholy career. And the same might perhaps be said of Hazlitt, with this aggravating qualification—that in his
case the peculiarity was wholly imaginary, except in so far as the imagination, while
acting upon his mind, made that into a fact which had else been only a figment of his own
brain. If Hazlitt had not in his moody moments fancied himself a mark
for vulgar and ignorant wonder “to point the slow unmoving finger at,”
he might have been living among us now, one of the most delightful ornaments of social
life, and the noblest examples of the advancing spirit of his day and country—the pride and
pleasure of his friends, and himself the happy witness of the coming on of that glorious
dawn of better things which his own writings have materially helped to bring about.
The result of this morbid imagination—this one idea which haunted him like a
visible phantom—this falsehood, which, knowing it to be such, he nevertheless palmed off
upon himself as a palpable truth, till at last he believed it—the result of this was, that,
with ![]()
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the most social disposition in the world, and with social
qualities of unsurpassed amount and value, Hazlitt,
during the latter years of his life, lived almost alone in the world—simply because he
could not persuade himself to seek that social intercourse which he had lost the power of
purchasing at the ordinary price, of complying with all the minutiæ in the received usages
of modern life and manners. He felt, in this respect, like a man who is travelling in a
strange or savage country, with his pockets full of gold, for which nobody will give him
bread in exchange, because his coin has not the conventional stamp of the place, or because
the people he has to deal with set no value on anything but those smooth shells and
glittering beads with which he has neglected to provide himself.
There can be little doubt that Hazlitt’s manner, superinduced upon him by his own morbid mistake as
to his personal appearance, had more to do with his peculiar and painful destiny, as
regards the private relations of life, than any one but himself would perhaps have been
willing to admit. And ![]()
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therefore it is that it becomes a point worthy
of especial notice in these Recollections. Indeed, there probably never occurred a more
striking example of the vast influence of external trifles over the moral and intellectual
condition of man; nor can I conceive a finer theme for the pen of
Hazlitt himself to have descanted upon and illustrated; for he was
even more intensely aware of the facts of the case, and of their causes and consequences,
than if any one else had been the subject of them. And this knowledge was a perpetual
aggravation of the evil, without, on the other hand, contributing in the smallest degree to
its cure. It was one of those fatal cases in which the sufferer “weeps the more
because he weeps in vain.”
Nothing could be more curious, and at times affecting, than to observe (as
those who thoroughly knew Hazlitt might often do)
the working of these feelings, in his occasional intercourse with society. It might be
supposed, perhaps, that the external deference and respect, not to mention the personal
homage and admiration, of a man like ![]()
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Hazlitt, were reserved for the distinguished philosophers, men of
science, poets, scholars, and statesmen of the day. Alas! the Chancellor Oxensteirn himself had not a more contemptuous notion of the
means and materials it takes to make “a great man,” in the estimation of the
world (whether of fact or of opinion), which great men are destined to govern. Accordingly,
in the presence of these, even the most deservedly celebrated among them,
Hazlitt felt himself perfectly at ease and on an equality. But
bring him face to face with one of those sleek favourites of fortune who are supposed to
find especial favour in fair eyes, or (above all) one of those happily constituted persons
who combine the several attributes and peculiarities of manner, look, attire, &c.,
which go to form the “gentleman” of modern times, and he was like a man
awe-struck, and confounded with a sense of his own comparative insignificance.
I remember once gaining his leave to introduce to him a person whose only
error in these respects was, that he carried them all to the verge of coxcombry; but who,
en revanche, had the most earnest and
sincere ![]()
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admiration for Hazlitt, and was, in all other respects, a cultivated and accomplished man. My
friend had long solicited me to bring about this meeting; and though, in the early part of
my acquaintance with Hazlitt, I had avoided it, as a service of danger
to all parties, I soon found that it might be effected, not only without any peril to my
friend, but with real gratification to Hazlitt himself, who had the
most unmingled admiration for the qualities in question, unimpaired by the slightest touch
of envy towards the owner of them.
The meeting took place at Hazlitt’s chambers; and after a little of the same sort of blank
embarrassment and schoolboy shyness that one may fancy a country recluse might have
exhibited on being called upon to sustain a personal interview with George the Fourth, I never knew Hazlitt spend a
happier evening, or one more entirely free from those occasional fallings back into his
other and less natural self, which were at once the sin and the curse of his social life.
With the exception of this one occasion, I do not know that I have ever passed an evening
with him, ![]()
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the intellectual enjoyment of which was not at intervals
broken in upon by looks passing over his noble countenance, which, where they did not move
the observer to terror or wonder, could not fail to excite the deepest pain and pity. But
on the evening I am referring to, I particularly remarked that nothing of this kind
occurred.
The reason of this, on after reflection, became obvious to me. Our talk was,
almost without exception, on the ordinary topics of the passing hour—the public and social
events of the day, the theatres, the actors and actresses, our mutual friends (not
forgetting their weaknesses), a little “scandal about Queen Elizabeth”—in short, anything and everything but books,
book-making, book-learning, and those exclusively literary themes
which Hazlitt liked less than any others that could
be started. The consequence was, that old associations and painful recollections never once
came back to him; broken friendships and buried affections found no unoccupied place in his
mind on which to cast their shadows; present annoyances were crowded out of doors; fu-![]()
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ture contingences were as if they could never happen; and the too
often moody, gloomy, constrained, and taciturn recluse, was (to the no small astonishment
of my other friend) free and fresh-hearted as a schoolboy among his mates—gay and voluble
as a bird in spring—making the room echo with those shouts of laughter, in the thorough
heartiness of which no one surpassed him.
The strange and unhappy mistake of Hazlitt, respecting the effect of his manner and bearing on casual
observers, was peculiarly active in regard to women; nor could any evidences, however
strong and unequivocal (and the reader will see hereafter that such were far from wanting),
remove or weaken this feeling, which amounted to nothing short of monomania. In proof of
this I could, if the nature of the case permitted, allege numerous instances in which the
most indisputable marks of female favour and distinction (whether accorded to his
intellectual pretension or not, no matter), were looked upon and resented by him as personal affronts! In his numerous “affairs of the
heart” (for, like his favourite, John Buncle, he
was ![]()
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always in love with somebody or other), to the fair one’s
indifference he was indifferent, and continued to love on: if she recognised his homage and
was angry at it, he accepted the token as a kind of involuntary compliment; but if she
smiled on him, he was confounded and cured! It was clear that she meant, first to entangle,
and then to laugh at and insult him!
I may have some singular matter to unfold in connexion with this part of my
subject hereafter. In the mean time, the curious reader is growing anxious for the removal
of the veil which hides this supposed Mokanna from view. What will he or she say, when, in
dropping it, I exhibit a form of excellent symmetry, surmounted by one of the noblest heads
and faces that ever symbolled forth a refined, lofty, capacious, and penetrating intellect.
The truth is, that for depth, force, and variety of intellectual
expression, a finer head and face than Hazlitt’s were never seen. I speak of them when his countenance was
not dimmed and obscured by illness, or clouded and deformed by those fearful indications of
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internal passion which he never even attempted to conceal. The
expression of Hazlitt’s face, when anything was said in his
presence that seriously offended him, or when any peculiarly painful recollection passed
across his mind, was truly awful—more so than can be conceived as within the capacity of
the human countenance; except, perhaps, by those who have witnessed Edmund Kean’s last scene of Sir Giles Overreach from the front of the pit.
But when he was in good health, and in a tolerable humour with himself and the world, his
face was more truly and entirely answerable to the intellect that spoke through it, than
any other I ever saw, either in life or on canvas; and its crowning portion, the brow and
forehead, was, to my thinking, quite unequalled, for mingled capacity and beauty.
For those who desire a more particular description, I will add, that
Hazlitt’s features, though not cast in any
received classical mould, were regular in their formation, perfectly consonant with each
other, and so finely “chiselled” (as the phrase is), that they produced a much
more prominent and striking ![]()
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effect than their scale of size might
have led one to expect. The forehead, as I have hinted, was magnificent; the nose precisely
that (combining strength with lightness and elegance) which physiognomists have assigned as
evidence of a fine and highly cultivated taste; though there was a peculiar character about
the nostrils, like that observable in those of a fiery and unruly horse. The mouth, from
its ever-changing form and character, could scarcely be described, except as to its
astonishingly varied power of expression, which was equal to, and greatly resembled, that
of Edmund Kean. His eyes, I should say, were not
good. They were never brilliant, and there was a furtive and at times a sinister look about
them, as they glanced suspiciously from under their overhanging brows, that conveyed a very
unpleasant impression to those who did not know him. And they were seldom directed frankly
and fairly towards you; as if he were afraid that you might read in them what was passing
in his mind concerning you. His head was nobly formed and placed; with (until the last few
years ![]()
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of his life) a profusion of coal-black hair, richly curled; and
his person was of the middle height, rather slight, but well formed and put together.
Yet all these advantages were worse than thrown away, by the strange and
ungainly manner that at times accompanied them. Hazlitt entered a room as if he had been brought back to it in custody; he
shuffled sidelong to the nearest chair, sat himself down upon one corner of it, dropped his
hat and his eyes upon the floor, and, after having exhausted his stock of conventional
small-talk in the words, “It’s a fine day” (whether it was so or
not), seemed to resign himself moodily to his fate. And if the talk did not take a turn
that roused or pleased him, thus he would sit, silent and half-absorbed, for half an hour
or half a minute, as the case might be, and then get up suddenly, with a “Well,
good morning,” shuffle back to the door, and blunder his way out, audibly
muttering curses on his folly, for willingly putting himself in the way of becoming the
laughing-stock of—the servants! for it was of that class and
intellec-![]()
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tual grade of persons that Hazlitt
alone stood in awe. Of the few private houses to which his inclinations ever led him, he
perfectly well knew that, even if there had been (which, as we have seen, there was not)
anything unusual or outré in his appearance, his intellectual
pretensions would alone have been thought of. But there was no reaching the drawing-room
without running the gauntlet of the servants’ hall; and this it was that crushed and
confounded him. I am satisfied that Hazlitt never entered a
room—scarcely even his own—that he was not writhing under the feelings engendered during
his passage to it; and that he never knocked at a door without fearing that it might be
opened by a new servant, who would wonder what so “strange” a person could want
with their master or mistress.
To those who are not accustomed to the mental vagaries of men of genius,
this must seem like a species of insanity. But there would, I think, be no difficulty in
accounting for it on perfectly rational principles; at least, I am sure he would have found
no dif-![]()
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ficulty in doing so, even in his own case, much less in that of
another person. I shall not myself attempt this explanation; but I will venture to hint at
the grounds of it, because they belong to the subject of which I have undertaken to treat.
Those grounds are to be sought, as I conceive, first, in that radical defect in Hazlitt’s moral conformation, at which I have
reluctantly glanced in the outset of these Recollections. Secondly, in that intensely vivid
state of excitability in which his intellectual faculties, and especially his imagination,
at all times existed, and that consequent intense perception of all things within and about
him, which showed him, as with a microscopic eye, a thousand trifles that were invisible to
ordinary observation. Thirdly, that oppressive and overweening self-consciousness which, as
it were, projected the shadows and lights of his own mind upon all things on which he
looked, and caused external objects to reflect back to him his own thoughts and sensations,
as if they were bodily images; thus creating an intellectual world which blended itself
with the physical one, and prevented him from being wholly pre-![]()
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sent in
or occupied with either. Lastly, that despairing abandonment of all attempt at
self-control, which (being fully and intensely conscious of it) made him stand in perpetual
dread of himself,—uncertain that, from moment to moment, he might not be tempted to commit
some incredible outrage against those rules and usages of civilized life, which,
nevertheless, he was the last person in the world to hold in contempt.
The reader will, I hope, not suppose that I offer the above as anything
more than the materials for an explanation of one of the most
curious and interesting phenomena that ever arose out of the condition and operations of
the human mind. The explanation itself might (as I have hinted) have formed an admirable
theme for Hazlitt’s own pen; but I scarcely
think there is another left among us capable of handling it to any satisfactory result. For
myself, I will not venture to pursue it further. But I will say, that, however the weakness
in question used to pain and even shock me, I never felt the least surprise at it. On the
contrary, it always struck me as a natural and intelligible commentary on ![]()
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the peculiar mental condition from which it sprang—a sort of
physiognomical expression, as easy to be interpreted as those of the face itself: the only
singularity of the case being, that whereas most other men are able to conceal all external
evidences of what is passing or has passed in their minds except those which are written on
their faces, Hazlitt was “all face.”
William Hazlitt (1778-1830)
English essayist and literary critic; author of
Characters of
Shakespeare's Plays (1817),
Lectures on the English Poets
(1818), and
The Spirit of the Age (1825).
Edmund Kean (1787-1833)
English tragic actor famous for his Shakespearean roles.
Axel Oxenstierna (1583-1654)
Swedish statesman and advisor to Gustavus Adolphus and Queen Christina.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778)
Swiss-born man of letters; author of, among others,
Julie ou la
Nouvelle Heloïse (1761),
Émile (1762) and
Les Confessions (1782).
